Mellow Fever
by cuddyclothes
Summary: Dean gets deep, Sam freaks out. "You're right, Sam, we shouldn't be hunters, we should be ordinary guys. Who says we're better than monsters?" Dean shrugged. "Maybe they're higher on the evolutionary scale." He paused. "Wow. I just blew my own mind." Is it hex bags? EMF? Patchouli?


Sam returned from the supply run. He put the assorted bags on the yellow Formica minibar.

"So, I've got a line on the vamps nest. It's going to be hard to get into, because it's in a-what's that smell?" It was thick, pungent and repulsive.

"Sandalwood," said Dean lazily. He lounged on his bed, boots off, eyes half-closed, pillows piled so that he was half-sitting, half lying. An incense stick in a small bottle of oil was on his bedside cabinet. "It is _righteous_. It opens your perception of the whole universe. It's fan-fucking-tastic, Sam. Isn't it fan-fucking-tastic?"

"It's fan-fucking-stinky."

Dean closed his eyes and sang, off-key:

_I don't want to be a rusty suit of armor  
Or a tumbled out forgotten castle in your mind  
I just want to be a twisted willow  
So I can leave you shallow thinking far behind_

"Dean, the hell?"

_I've flown so high I'll never return  
And I've been to the bottom of the dregs of your troubled soul  
And I've basked in the sun of your revelations  
But I guess  
You and I have different goals  
So go and slay your dragons in blind amusement  
And topple imagination with a song_

"I go out for groceries and come back to find Jerry Garcia!" Sam stood over Dean.

"Ultimate Spinach."

"I don't care. What is _up_ with you?"

Dean grinned, and crossed his arms behind his head. "Everything, Sammy. Y'know, killing monsters is against the natural order. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Earth, it's an amazing big moosh of perfection. Everything is here for a reason, including gorilla wolves. You're right, we shouldn't be hunters, we should be ordinary guys. Why keep beating our brains out against the natural order? It's already driving us batshit. Why not stop and smell the—the—what is it?"

"Roses."

"Yeah, roses, daffodils, blueberries...who says that we're better than monsters?" Dean shrugged. "Maybe they're higher on the evolutionary scale." He stopped, eyes widening. "Wow. I blew my own mind."

Sam gulped. Here he'd been bitching about being a hunter for years, and now that his brother was suggesting they just..._give up_...it was a big macramé holder of wrong. "Dean, are you kidding me?"

"Nah, I—" Dean seemed to lose his train of thought. "I got to thinking, that's all. We can give all our guns to those buy back gun programs, the other stuff—I don't know, do they have demon knife buy back programs? I'm gonna grow my hair like yours, little brother." He smirked. "Your hair shows you're a wild and free spirit!"

"Not funny."

"Not trying to be funny." Dean swung to his feet and pointed at this brother. "Killers no more. I'm sick of being guilty, scared, all that other crap. We are now children of peace, dude. I gotta take a shower."

The sound of the shower came on, along with Dean singing:

_I'm just mad about Saffron  
Saffron's mad about me  
I'm just mad about Saffron  
She's just mad about me  
They call me mellow yellow  
Quite rightly  
They call me mellow yellow  
Quite rightly  
They call me mellow yellow_

Holy crap, Dean was singing _Donovan_! Sam frantically searched the hotel room for hex bags, sulfur, anything to explain his brother the hippie. Maybe a vengeful spirit who'd taken the brown acid; no EMF. Fuck.

Sam yelled over the sound of shower, "Dean, did you drop acid?"

"No! You got any?"

"_No_!" The water stopped. Dean came out, a towel around his waist, drying his hair with a hand towel. He looked in the mirror. "Yeah, I'm growing it long."

Sam stuck his face in Dean's. "Dean, what the hell is going on with you? Peace, love, monsters being part of the eternal cycle of life, getting rid of our weapons—is this a joke?"

"No, Sam, I'm serious." Dean gave Sam a happy smile. It was as strange as a bullfrog wearing shoes.

"Sam, you wanted to stop hunting. So, we stop hunting. We live in harmony with the universe. Go back to your job, get married, have kids...I'll trade in the Impala for a hog and explore the United States with nothing but the clothes on my back and a pecan pie."

Sam's skin was crawling. "Dean, you have to fight this thing! You can't become _peaceful!_ Trading in Baby for a motorcycle?" He watched Dean cross the room and sit down on the bed to get dressed. "Smelling the daffodils? You're a hunter! You love being a hunter! I don't want my old job! Do you know how _boring_ being a maintenance guy is? The biggest challenge of my day is finding out where the raccoons are getting into the garbage cans. I'm not crazy about it, but you can't—we can't give up hunting. Our part in the natural order is hunting."

"I thought you'd say that," said Dean, and morphed into Gabriel.

"You sonovabitch!"

Gabriel sat up, snapped his fingers and a Butterfinger materialized in his other hand. "You wanted peace, love and buttercups, Gigantor." He took a huge bite of candy. "You wanted to stop hunting. I gave it to you in _spades_." He licked the candy crumbles from his fingers.

"Where's Dean?"

"At a gentleman's club across the Target mall. He's stuffing fives in a stripper's crotch even as we speak." Gabriel gave Sam a sly look. "Be careful what you wish for, big boy."

Gabriel disappeared, leaving Sam holding a huge sunflower.


End file.
